LOCATION
Market Square
Greater than any of the squares of the city, the Market Square nevertheless feels small amd constricted. Wagons, stands, tents, permanent and temporary shops, flimsy and solid structures crowd the square, making it look as a heap of rubbish at the first glance. But if you come to terms with it and reconcile yourself to the fact that getting out of the square will take a better part of an hour, you might as well look over the various goods being offered. Sweet fruits and dried meats, spices of the South and furs of the North, gold and silver, leather and iron - there is nothing you can't buy in Umbar the Golden.
Streets run off in four directions out of the market; an Inn could be seen to the southeast, northwest would lead you to the city centre, while northeast - to the Eastern Gate. Southwest, nothing of importance can be discerned from here.
Contents:
* Torch Merchant
Obvious exits:
* Northwest leads to Phazanbatan: Armor and Weapon Shops.
* Southwest leads to Harbatan: Animal Pens.
* Southeast leads to Phazanbatan: Before the Inn.
* Northeast leads to Harbatan: Dye Quarter.
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[Galenrien:] The winter winds have picked up now that the sun has dropped behind the horizon. The air is cool and faintly misty, shrouding the sky with clouds. One might think rain was eminent. In the streets, there are still folk about some hurrying to their destination, others still moving slowly. The Market Square merchants are still open, however and here and there are groups of folk still about their business. All are heavily bundled against the winter air.
One woman weaves her way to the southeast on the street, towards the Inn and in her hand she carries a basket - it's contants covered by a linen plaid. She walks neither swiftly not slow, her eyes ahead. Occasiionally a greeting is called to her, and she smiles a return - but an absent smile it is, as though her thoughts were very much elsewhere.
[Barzag:] Through the market wanders a lone figure, shoulders slightly stooped, dark head turning this way and that as he surveys the stalls. Unlike most, he wears no cloak, and his tunic and trousers are threadbare - clearly his clothes have seen better days. Despite his scruffy appearance he must have coin of some sort to spend, for he heads over to one of the clothier's stands.
[Gurthul:] Grasped by a larger man of great stature and air of nobility is Gurthul. His shoulder is in grip of the larger man to his backside, the more frail and lithe form of Gurthul looks defenseless and troubled. He walks throughout the square in the mercy of his master's movements. His eyes dart from face to face in quiet desperation, small beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. He speaks not, but only follows the holding reign of his master's commanding grip.
[Galenrien:] On this cold night, any who are not bundled against winter's icy grip - would stand out most assuredly. Perhaps if the woman with the basket had been paying some heed to the events around her, she would not have joustled the woman who walked near to her elbow, that was carrying a large bundle. The woman almost lost her balance and dropped her parecl on the icy ground. The first woman loses her asbent expression and flushes crimson. As she stands stammering an apology, the woman lifts her chim and snapps "Watch your step, Mistress." before moving quickly away.
Only then does the woman look about her - doubtless to see if any noticed her clumsiness. As she satnds near a clothiers stall, she sees the threadbare man. A crease marrs her forehead and then her gaze moves just beyond him to the twain, one large and the other an obvious slave. Her look darkens the move. No doubt, her recent experince has made her more prone to anger than she might aught have bee, Still her look is fierce as they all approach.
[Barzag:] The scruffy-looking fellow, who some might recognize as one of the mason's labourers, Barzag by name, asks something of the cloth merchant, receiving a curt reply. At this Barzag's shoulders hunch a little further, and he shakes his head, mumbling only, "it is too much." Turning to look about the Market Square, his eyes fall on the unhappy-looking Gurthul - one of his own kind, surely? - and he takes a single step forward. Attention thus held, he does not even notice the angry Galenrien.
[Gurthul:] Clearly, fear invokes this plain-grade man to make no commotion or fuss -- he has thus been trained and punished since. Under the brusing grip of his master, Gurthul moves forward to the attentive Barzag. Their eyes meet, Gurthul recognizing the lesser blood of Barzag; his face makes a convulsion but is soon disrupted by his master's booming voice
"What chee lookin' at boy?! Make way, or I'll shove yee down!"
Gurthul takes a quicker pace toward Barzad under his master's control, his eyes still connected with fierce inquisition.
[Galenrien:] Now that her attention is caught by the Rhevain folks' plights, the healess Galenrien, watches the one talk with the merchant. With a waspish glance to the man, who ignores her look and turns to attend a waiting customer, her eyes go to the other Rhevain just as Brazag's do. She watches in silence, her fair brow creased.
At the master's words, Galenrien flinches slightly and her nostrils flare. Her color is still high as well, so she looks rather commanding thus. She hisses a breath out - a plume of steam escaping. Her brow remains creased - tis plain her mind is working madly - to speak or something else, is of course not plain. In another moment, her lips press firmly together and she says, rather loudly. "You, sir, are a not a gentleman. Surely, you not not have to treat that man so - even if you is your slave." She says the last word derisively as if she disapproved greatly.
[Barzag:] The change in Gurthul's expression is noted, and taken for disdain. Barzag's twisted lips press tightly together as he meets the others gaze, his amber eyes reflecting mistrust and curiosity in equal proportions. As Galenrien begins to speak, he stares at her as if she were mad - indeed, many others do the same. The shopkeeper makes some snide remark to the man he is serving, receiving a laugh in response. And while most attention is on the auburn-haired woman, Barzag risks hissing to Gurthul in his own tongue, "<Mannish_H> What have you done to merit such treatment? Have you no pride?" The implication is obvious.
[Gurthul:] "Not a gentleman indeed! For when have women been called womanly indeed, when shouting at men! Surely never have I seen such atrocity! You shall silence yourself and go on your business if you know how women should act, young one!"
The large Umbarian's voice carries through the square and people begin to stare more readily.
Gurthul says, "<Mannish_H> Have I no pride, brother?! I have been captured and turned in for bounty, this is murder...you must help me...I know your face now, brother..."
[Gurthul:] Gurthul's voice is cut short by a painful grip upon his shoulder. "Stop quaking in that tongue, boy!"
[Galenrien:] Galenrien ignores the muttering and the laughs that her words generated. She lifts her chin now and her jaw is set. It might seem that she is either used to commanding attention, some unwanted or that she just does not care aboot attracting it.
Her eyes blaze blue-grey as a newly forged blade as she replies, her voice just as loud as before. "Young I may be, sir..." Again that derisive tone on that last word.." that will change in time, but you .. will...always be an imbecile. Id you must treat a creature of Eru as this, do it where none can see, at least." Her voice rises. "I am offended by thee and refuse to speak to thee more. Her glance falls to the one in his grip and the blue-grey eyes close and open slowly - suddenly they look sad instead of angry. She turns to the other and says in a low voice. "If you come to the Healers House, I have an old cloak that was left by a solder. He has long left. I would rather have it warm you than sit on a shelf useless." Then only her gaze sweeps the crowd, daring any to comment on her words, if indeed they were heard by any near,
[Barzag:] "<Mannish_H> We all serve the Men of the Sea here," is Barzag's muttered reply, pitched barely above a whisper. "<Mannish_H> It is that or die. But there are ways to do so with more dignity." He stops as there is a gasp from one of the merchant's customers at Galenrien's use of the word imbecile. The townsfolk's shaking of heads and wagging of tongues stops as Galenrien faces them directly, but under cover of the distraction Barzag takes the opportunity to add, "<Mannish_H> I know of folk who seek workers, no questions asked. You should run when you can." He looks somewhat wistful at the auburn-haired woman's offer of clothing, though it is not directed at him.
[Gurthul:] "I said hush you two peons, you sound like a couple of wild hogs!"
As the two hillmen cease to speak after Barzag's words, Galenrien's voice rings to the Master's attention. He remains poised where he is, stout and confident, no emotion showing forth from his face or his body.
Suddenly...an eruption of laughter from the Master. His face grows red and his grip closes in on Gurthul's collar bone, his face wincing in pain.
"Surely, you are absurd! Muhaha!"
As the man begins to walk again on his way, jerking Gurthul along, the hillman's thin voice breaks through again...
Gurthul says, "<Mannish_H> I know your face now brother, and I have much to say about this -false- condition I'm in...I am not how I seem -- we will speak in the near future my brother..."
[Gurthul:] Gurthul is jerked back by his master as he speaks his last words to Barzag, quickly shooting a look of despair to Galenrien as he trots off by his Master's will.
[Galenrien:] The eyes of the healess follow the loathsome man and his hapless slave as they walk out of sight. Her lips are pressed to that thin line as she looks to Barzag again. A small sigh escapes her and she says. "Come, if you will..to the healers houses. Say there that you seek Galenrien, Head Mistress. I will leave word if by chance I am not there." She watches the man carefully, perhaps afraid that he will not trust her words. The crowd that had gathered to watch the ruckus now fades back into the street, now that the excitement seems to be done. Some look at Galenrien with hooded glance and some whisper behidn their hands.
If Galen hears these whispers, she gives no sign, but her chin is lifted still.
[Barzag:] No longer doubting that it is he being addressed, Barzag lifts his head to look Galenrien in the eye. "I will come," he says, "if you accept some coin. I do not take if I cannot give." One corner of his mouth pulls down in a gesture of wry bitterness as he waits to see what the response will be. Behind him the cloth-merchant gives a snort, then reaches out to tap Barzag on the shoulder, saying, "Unless you're buying then move on. You're blocking the stall."
[Galenrien:] Galen gives the merchant an acid glance. "I will not take coin, but if thee would work, I have some garden work that we have not had time to spare to do at healers. The herb garden as well as the vegatables need care. Would this be acceptable - a trade." She steps back from the stall, her eyes still on Barzag, beckoning him to follow and heed the merchant's words.
[Barzag:] Shifting a few paces away from the stall for now, Barzag slowly shakes his head, dropping his glance from the healer. "I already do this - work for coin," he says. "When day's work is done, I fetch and carry, or lift sometimes - one time I did work with the stone ..." For a moment his bleak expression lightens as the right side of his mouth raises in the ghost of a smile. "So I can not take your cloak, then," he says with a sigh. "I must work more - and then come back here." He glances back round towards the oblivious merchant.
[Galenrien:] "But..but wait...er, what may I calll you? I am Galenrien, as I've said Head Mistress of the Healing Houses. "Why can not we trade? I need work done, and you need a coat? Can not we trade?" She pauses. "I understand if you do not want to take it, nor.. would I." She stops speaking, plainly at a loss for more words to ply her case.
[Barzag:] Barzag stares back at the woman, misery plain in his eyes as it is plain that his explanation was not understood. "I can not work for you," he tries again, "I have not the time. I work many evenings, and I must also sleep ... and sometimes I learn also." Again that brief flicker of pleasure, quickly gone again. Heavy brows draw down slightly with a frown as the Hillman confesses, "And I do not understand all your words - I am sorry. What is a 'Ga-len-reen'? I do not know this word."
[Galenrien:] She sighs, and then she begins to bite her lip with her lower teeth - a sign if any here knew here - that she is thinking furiously. "You may cal me Galen. Tis easier to say, I think. Galen." She repeats again. "You have no time...." A apause and then. "Well how much coin have you? This cloak, it sits useless in my shelf. Surely it is not worth the coin that a new one would cost. Ca not you purchase it from me? It is useless where it is...." She watches him intently as she waits his reply. Afraid, she might be - it seems - that he will bolt away before she can acheive her goal.
[Barzag:] The Hillman's frown deepens. "Galen," he repeats, and then with a flash of understanding, his face clears. "It is a name? Then - I understand now. And my name, it is Barzag." He turns away for a moment, then reaches through a rent in his tunic to draw out a leather pouch concealed beneath the clothing, where no thief can easily reach it. "I have twelve coins," he says at last, after inspection. "But the stall-man said twenty?"
[Galenrien:] Galen's face brightened considerably. "Barzag. Good." A pause. " Well.." She starts slowly. "This cloak is not new by any means, and it needs mending - if I recall correctly, but it is thick and was once well-made of old now. I could truly not take more than half of what that...." She tosses her head to the merchant, who is not minding them in the least - as he is busy closing his stall - " ...that man would sell a new one for...Hrm" She shifts her basket to the other hand and continues, as she looks to the coins assessing their value. " How about ... 5 coins. That seems fair to me. Tis old as I say." Again she watches his face intently. Many Dunedain find that penetrating look causes them much discomfort and many a brave solder has been seen to fidget beneath it. Still there is no ill intent, only fixxed concentration.
[Barzag:] And to one accustomed to hostile stares, who can say how that look is read? Barzag's own eyes narrow as he listens to Galenrien's words. "You say half, than you say five - that is not right. I do know how to count." For a moment the frown returns, only to disperse as Barzag gives a rumble of laughter. "In the - the places where I was before, the one who sells names the higher price, the one who buys the lower one. But you ..." The laughter breaks off abruptly; the Hillman swallows and stares at the ground, before adding, perhaps realizing that he cannot afford to refuse the offer, "I do not mean offence to you."
[Galenrien:] She listens to him in silence and when he is done, she replies. "Tis true that I am not used to selling. I am a Healer! " She smiles. " Not a merchant. So I truly know not how to barter. But I tell thee plainly. You need a cloak and I have one to sell. I think it's not worth more than 5 coins...I do not know aught to add."
[Barzag:] Galenrien's smile goes unseen by Barzag, although at the light tone of her words he does raise his head again. "I know a little of how you value things here," he says. "And I know that for my own people a cloak is worth many many days work ..." He pauses, lifts shoulders in a slight shrug. "May I see? And pay the value I think is good?" The right side of his mouth curls upwards slightly, and he adds gruffly, "And I thank you".
[Galenrien:] She nods at his words. "Indeed. A new cloak costs much. This is not new, nor it is being used at all. Tis a waste." Now she looks triumphant, despite her words. "Oh aye. Come and see. Can you come now?" Her eyes glitter again, that blue-grey brightness.
[Barzag:] Barzag glances round the Market Square, where the crowds have long since dispersed. Most of the stall-keepers have now packed their wares away, and the place looks bare, forlorn somehow now that it is shorn of its gaudy trappings.
"Yes," the Hillman assents. "I can come - tonight I rest." He says this as if it were not an everyday occurrence. "Where must I go?" His amber eyes regard the woman thoughtfully, torn lips parted slightly as if in question, as he waits for Galenrien to precede him from the Square.
[Galenrien:] She nods briskly. "Follow me, then, Barzag." And she turns to wade her way through the crowd. She looks back and stops, to make sure that he follows - doubtless.
[Barzag:] Barzag moves forward readily enough, but remains a few steps behind the Numenorean woman.
Participants:
GALENRIEN
A young woman of Numenor stands before you. She walks with the proud steps of her heritage. Although her form is lithe, and her movements graceful, she is not exceedingly tall. Her auburn hair is held back from her face by two braids woven to the nape of her neck. Woven here and there in the braids are silver threads, which seem to catch the light when she moves. Curls are always escaping, often causing her to brush them back from her face with deft fingers. If one looked closely, one would notice her large and expressive gray eyes have fine lines in the corners, which seem to suggest smiles and laughter, even if her expression is serious. Her lips are full and generous.
She wears a simple form-fitting dress of a silvery-blue silk, and on close inspection, one can see that the embroidery visible at her left shoulder and around her hem line is of blue flowers entwined with leaves on a vine. Pinned at her right shoulder, the emblem of the Healer's Guild can be seen. Around her neck is her only piece of jewelry, a gemstone of sea-blue, hanging on a silver chain that rests in the hollow of her throat. A small green satchel made of leather is hung from a strap, which is usually slung over her shoulder to hang down her back, or if her hands are busy, she ties it at her waist to keep it from getting in her way.
BARZAG
At first glance this man appears a normal specimen of the Hill-Folk. He is tall for his kind, perhaps about six feet in height, and his shoulders are slightly hunched in the manner of one who spends much of the time looking downward. His skin is swarthy, weather-beaten from long days spent outdoors, his build rugged. From the man's slightly stooped posture, you deduce that he is used to carrying heavy loads. His feet are encased in crude leather moccasins, worn and scuffed. He wears trousers of some coarse greyish material, although it is hard to tell whether this is the cloth's original colour or the result of fading. Several tears in the material have been painstakingly if inexpertly mended. A mass of unruly dark hair hangs to just above his shoulders, loose strands brushing the top of his tunic; the soft brown cloth must have been of good quality when new, although now there are various marks on it and it is becoming threadbare in places.
Your gaze wanders upwards, towards this man's face - and halts, for therein lies the reason for the distrust and fear he inspires in many. His chin is hidden by a short, dark beard, carefully trimmed. But his upper lip, upon which only a few sparse bristles grow, is cloven in the manner of a beast, and twisted slightly so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his nose is long and straight; amber eyes generally regard the observer coolly from beneath lowering black brows. Were it not for the wrongness of his mouth, he might even be considered handsome, but his disfigurement prevents this.
GURTHUL
You gaze upon a tall man holding himself up with an aura of self-reliance. His stance peeks 6'2" and his body is lanky yet in shape. Raven hued hair dominates upon his head and it is composed in a sloppy, un-tended style. His face is slim, and his eyes are deep-set. Kindling a burnished fire of bronze from within, many things lie hidden and shrouded from the past. His high cheek bones give him much character, and his eyes set a keen, piercing glance. A trimmed goatee is grown out nicely upon his thin chin and adds years to his appearance.
A black tunic and black lennins are his common attire. He shows no wealth or jewlry, but the bareness in his clothes sets an eerie tone to his figure. Tied upon his waste is a leather belt with a black sheath, and a small shield rests on his back. Further down, high polished, tucked boots meet his lower knee and give off a bright sheen.